Title: "Late-Night Musings and Cigarette Smoke"
Author: Athena Parthenos
Feedback: Yes, please. =) Constructive criticism, praise, and suggestions are gladly accepted.
Spoilers: Through "Get It Done"
Summary: The back porch at the Casa Summers beckons to the lonely in the middle of the night.
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, the SiTs, the Ubervamps, and whomever else may show up belong not to me but to Joss Whedon.
Author's Note: A bit fluffy, yeah, but fluff never hurt anyone. (Although those with a dust-bunny phobia may beg to differ....)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She couldn't sleep.
She flung aside the comforter, admitting defeat. Sleep refused to come to her; instead, parades of Turok-Han vampires, waving their weapons and snarling, marched unceasingly through her mind. Buffy rubbed at her eyes, reaching for her bathrobe and snuggling her feet into slippers.
She closed the bedroom door behind her, slipping out into the dimly lit hall. No First Slayer vision accosted her this time. She quietly made her way down the stairs, thinking of taking in a little midnight snack. She glanced at the clock in the living room and shrugged; it was considerably later than midnight.
Buffy entered the dark kitchen, walking to the refrigerator, thinking vaguely of warming up some milk. Through the back window she caught a glimpse of something bright, and she tensed, wondering if it was some demon. Then it moved into the light, and she realized it was just the back porchlight reflecting off Spike's blindingly blond head, which seemed wreathed in blue-grey smoke. Of course; he'd slipped out for a cigarette.
Buffy forgot about the warm milk. She unlocked the back door, opening it and sidling through. Spike whirled at the sound of the door opening,
but seeing it was her, relaxed. He took a deep drag off his cigarette, then flicked it to the ground, grinding it beneath his boot. "'Evening, pet," he said quietly, leaning against the wall of the house. She blinked, realizing he wore his trenchcoat for the first time in months.
"Spike?" she asked hesitantly, closing the door behind her and sticking her hands into the pockets of her robe. "You're wearing your coat again."
He looked down at the leather he wore, raising a dark eyebrow. "I'd noticed, yeah."
Buffy rolled her eyes. "Where'd you get it? I mean, you left it here . . . that night."
Spike shrugged. "Nicked it from your hall closet a few months back and stowed it in the school. I went and got it back tonight. Figured it might help me relish the kill again, so to speak."
Buffy's cheeks burned at her harsh words earlier that evening. Yes, everyone needed to work harder -- but she knew now that she had been *too* hard on them. All her life she'd been thrust into the position of warrior, leader -- and she had never been very comfortable with it. Especially now, when so many people were depending on her to make the right decisions, keep them all safe. Had she failed them? "Spike, I'm sorry for what I said tonight," she said in a small voice, looking down at the porch.
"Don't be. Needed to be said," he said nonchalantly. She looked back at him, surprised, to see him dismiss her apology with a wave of his long hand. "You were right. I *wasn't* pulling my weight 'round here. I'm the only one strong as you are, physically, and it's not fair for me to get squeamish *now.*" He smiled bitterly. "So, here I am. The Big Bad himself. Happy, luv?"
Buffy sighed, staring back at the porch. She noticed the boards beneath her slippered feet were scuffed and that the paint was starting to come away in some places. "Spike, I'm glad you're not going to hold back anymore . . . but I didn't mean what I said about the soul." She breathed deeply, getting a lungful of the cigarette smoke still lingering all around him. She turned her gaze back to him and looked him in the eyes. "I'm glad you have it."
Spike frowned, his brows knitting together. He looked away, sighing. "Dunno that *I* am. Glad, I mean." She stared at him, and he elaborated. "I got it for you. I keep telling you that, but I dunno that's it's sunk in. I got it because I knew you deserved something better than an 'evil, soulless thing.' And I knew, no matter how hard I tried to do good by you, Buffy, I'd stuff it up." His eyes were hard, angry.
"Spike --"
He straightened, stepped towards her, bringing his face close to hers. She swallowed, looking into those blue eyes. "It's true, Slayer. I tried to save the Bit -- and you died. I tried to stop loving you, because I *knew* it was wrong, and instead I ended up shagging the demon-girl. And that last night --" His voice was a hiss. "-- I came to tell you sorry, and I almost. . . ." He pulled away, blinking, and he looked pained. His voice was soft. "I hurt you, Buffy. And that's when I knew I could never be good enough, clean enough, for you. I'd always do something wrong. So, I got a soul; figured it'd keep me out of trouble." He scoffed. "'Course, we both know how that turned out. A soul just meant I didn't want to kill anymore, because I loathed myself. But I killed anyway. How many was it, pet?" He sighed. "Not that I want you to kill me anymore. But I won't lie to you. I still think you'd be better off with me gone. Soul or no soul." He shrugged.
Buffy's eyes filled with tears. "Spike . . . stop," she breathed. He raised his eyebrows, mildly surprised. She continued, fiddling nervously with the fuzzy bits of lint in her bathrobe pockets. "I meant what I said last week. About how I'm not ready for you to leave. I -- I need you."
He looked strangely naked, suddenly -- his eyes wide, his face hopeful. "You mean it. Completely and utterly. No games." A bit of suspicion, born of long experience, crept back into his voice.
She nodded, reaching up and touching his cool cheek for just an instant before pulling away. "I really mean it, Spike." She turned her head, shy again, and decided she was tired of standing -- and of hiding.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed him watching her; she pulled her robe up and sat down on the top step of the porch. She smiled faintly at him, patting the stair beside her. He regarded her coolly for a moment, then pulled up his duster and sat next to her. He clasped his hands together, resting his forearms on his thighs. She watched him carefully as he cleared his throat and said, "Do you remember what I said to you last week?"
She wondered what he was getting at. "When you said I should see other people?" she asked, hazarding a guess. Anger tinged her voice. Buffy knew she was letting her emotions get the better of her, but she didn't care anymore -- she was tired of games and innuendo and emotional undercurrents. The ball was in his court, and she wanted to know what he really felt.
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I didn't mean a word of it, you know."
Despite herself, she smiled, looking into his face. His dark mood seemed to have passed with her confession of wanting him to stay, and now his eyes were twinkling. "Naturally," she said wryly.
"Naturally," he echoed. He shook his head ruefully, then reached out with a closed hand. He stroked her upper arm gently with the backs of his knuckles, and her heart leapt into her throat. Even through the fabric of the robe she felt his touch, electric and exciting. The gesture seemed almost unbearably intimate, and she caught her breath as he pulled away, unsure as to if she wanted him to continue, or if she was glad he had stopped.
Quietly he admitted, "Don't think I could ever stop loving you, Buffy."
A shiver went through her, part fear, part . . . excitement? One half of her wanted to shove him away and storm back inside, back to her cold bed and her nightmares of the impending apocalypse. The other half, however, wanted to lean into him and tell him she felt the same way. Buffy gulped, then steeled herself. She scooted closer to him and rested her head on his leather-clad shoulder. She felt his arm come up, go around her shoulders, draw her near. She took a deep breath and raised one hand, letting it come to rest on his chest, precisely where his heartbeat would be if he had one.
"Spike?" Buffy asked softly as his other arm came up to encircle her. She felt his long fingers begin to stroke her sleep-mussed hair, and she sank further into him, knowing what she had to say.
"I'm listening, pet." His voice was a comforting rumble in her ears, and she closed her eyes, and spoke.
"I love you."
He went very still. His fingers stopped mid-stroke; he would have stopped breathing if he drew breath in the first place. Fearfully she raised her head to look at his face -- had she misinterpreted everything?
Her fears were for naught. Spike blinked, and the spell she had unwittingly cast was broken. He looked down at her, his eyes kind. "Oh, luv," he breathed. "Oh, Buffy." A smile spread across her face. He leaned forward and kissed her, and she kissed him back, feeling only happiness.
The Turok-Han army was massing; potential Slayers were in lethal danger; apocalypse was imminent -- but all she could think about at that instant was Spike's cool mouth on hers, his familiar taste of copper and nicotine, his arms holding her close.
"Spike," she whispered, some time later.
"Buffy?" he panted.
She nodded to the sky, and Spike swore. The moon was sinking fast below the horizon, which was starting to blush with the new sun. "I think we'd better get inside." Spike nodded, untangling his arms from hers and getting stiffly to his feet. He held out a hand and she took it; he pulled her gracefully to her feet, and they slipped back into the house, their hands still clasped. Soon the girls would be rising to devour toast and eggs and cereal, ready to begin another day's work, ready to fight each other over whose turn it was to use the bathroom yet again -- but Buffy knew she had Spike by her side, and for the moment, that was enough.
~FIN
Author: Athena Parthenos
Feedback: Yes, please. =) Constructive criticism, praise, and suggestions are gladly accepted.
Spoilers: Through "Get It Done"
Summary: The back porch at the Casa Summers beckons to the lonely in the middle of the night.
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, the SiTs, the Ubervamps, and whomever else may show up belong not to me but to Joss Whedon.
Author's Note: A bit fluffy, yeah, but fluff never hurt anyone. (Although those with a dust-bunny phobia may beg to differ....)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She couldn't sleep.
She flung aside the comforter, admitting defeat. Sleep refused to come to her; instead, parades of Turok-Han vampires, waving their weapons and snarling, marched unceasingly through her mind. Buffy rubbed at her eyes, reaching for her bathrobe and snuggling her feet into slippers.
She closed the bedroom door behind her, slipping out into the dimly lit hall. No First Slayer vision accosted her this time. She quietly made her way down the stairs, thinking of taking in a little midnight snack. She glanced at the clock in the living room and shrugged; it was considerably later than midnight.
Buffy entered the dark kitchen, walking to the refrigerator, thinking vaguely of warming up some milk. Through the back window she caught a glimpse of something bright, and she tensed, wondering if it was some demon. Then it moved into the light, and she realized it was just the back porchlight reflecting off Spike's blindingly blond head, which seemed wreathed in blue-grey smoke. Of course; he'd slipped out for a cigarette.
Buffy forgot about the warm milk. She unlocked the back door, opening it and sidling through. Spike whirled at the sound of the door opening,
but seeing it was her, relaxed. He took a deep drag off his cigarette, then flicked it to the ground, grinding it beneath his boot. "'Evening, pet," he said quietly, leaning against the wall of the house. She blinked, realizing he wore his trenchcoat for the first time in months.
"Spike?" she asked hesitantly, closing the door behind her and sticking her hands into the pockets of her robe. "You're wearing your coat again."
He looked down at the leather he wore, raising a dark eyebrow. "I'd noticed, yeah."
Buffy rolled her eyes. "Where'd you get it? I mean, you left it here . . . that night."
Spike shrugged. "Nicked it from your hall closet a few months back and stowed it in the school. I went and got it back tonight. Figured it might help me relish the kill again, so to speak."
Buffy's cheeks burned at her harsh words earlier that evening. Yes, everyone needed to work harder -- but she knew now that she had been *too* hard on them. All her life she'd been thrust into the position of warrior, leader -- and she had never been very comfortable with it. Especially now, when so many people were depending on her to make the right decisions, keep them all safe. Had she failed them? "Spike, I'm sorry for what I said tonight," she said in a small voice, looking down at the porch.
"Don't be. Needed to be said," he said nonchalantly. She looked back at him, surprised, to see him dismiss her apology with a wave of his long hand. "You were right. I *wasn't* pulling my weight 'round here. I'm the only one strong as you are, physically, and it's not fair for me to get squeamish *now.*" He smiled bitterly. "So, here I am. The Big Bad himself. Happy, luv?"
Buffy sighed, staring back at the porch. She noticed the boards beneath her slippered feet were scuffed and that the paint was starting to come away in some places. "Spike, I'm glad you're not going to hold back anymore . . . but I didn't mean what I said about the soul." She breathed deeply, getting a lungful of the cigarette smoke still lingering all around him. She turned her gaze back to him and looked him in the eyes. "I'm glad you have it."
Spike frowned, his brows knitting together. He looked away, sighing. "Dunno that *I* am. Glad, I mean." She stared at him, and he elaborated. "I got it for you. I keep telling you that, but I dunno that's it's sunk in. I got it because I knew you deserved something better than an 'evil, soulless thing.' And I knew, no matter how hard I tried to do good by you, Buffy, I'd stuff it up." His eyes were hard, angry.
"Spike --"
He straightened, stepped towards her, bringing his face close to hers. She swallowed, looking into those blue eyes. "It's true, Slayer. I tried to save the Bit -- and you died. I tried to stop loving you, because I *knew* it was wrong, and instead I ended up shagging the demon-girl. And that last night --" His voice was a hiss. "-- I came to tell you sorry, and I almost. . . ." He pulled away, blinking, and he looked pained. His voice was soft. "I hurt you, Buffy. And that's when I knew I could never be good enough, clean enough, for you. I'd always do something wrong. So, I got a soul; figured it'd keep me out of trouble." He scoffed. "'Course, we both know how that turned out. A soul just meant I didn't want to kill anymore, because I loathed myself. But I killed anyway. How many was it, pet?" He sighed. "Not that I want you to kill me anymore. But I won't lie to you. I still think you'd be better off with me gone. Soul or no soul." He shrugged.
Buffy's eyes filled with tears. "Spike . . . stop," she breathed. He raised his eyebrows, mildly surprised. She continued, fiddling nervously with the fuzzy bits of lint in her bathrobe pockets. "I meant what I said last week. About how I'm not ready for you to leave. I -- I need you."
He looked strangely naked, suddenly -- his eyes wide, his face hopeful. "You mean it. Completely and utterly. No games." A bit of suspicion, born of long experience, crept back into his voice.
She nodded, reaching up and touching his cool cheek for just an instant before pulling away. "I really mean it, Spike." She turned her head, shy again, and decided she was tired of standing -- and of hiding.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed him watching her; she pulled her robe up and sat down on the top step of the porch. She smiled faintly at him, patting the stair beside her. He regarded her coolly for a moment, then pulled up his duster and sat next to her. He clasped his hands together, resting his forearms on his thighs. She watched him carefully as he cleared his throat and said, "Do you remember what I said to you last week?"
She wondered what he was getting at. "When you said I should see other people?" she asked, hazarding a guess. Anger tinged her voice. Buffy knew she was letting her emotions get the better of her, but she didn't care anymore -- she was tired of games and innuendo and emotional undercurrents. The ball was in his court, and she wanted to know what he really felt.
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I didn't mean a word of it, you know."
Despite herself, she smiled, looking into his face. His dark mood seemed to have passed with her confession of wanting him to stay, and now his eyes were twinkling. "Naturally," she said wryly.
"Naturally," he echoed. He shook his head ruefully, then reached out with a closed hand. He stroked her upper arm gently with the backs of his knuckles, and her heart leapt into her throat. Even through the fabric of the robe she felt his touch, electric and exciting. The gesture seemed almost unbearably intimate, and she caught her breath as he pulled away, unsure as to if she wanted him to continue, or if she was glad he had stopped.
Quietly he admitted, "Don't think I could ever stop loving you, Buffy."
A shiver went through her, part fear, part . . . excitement? One half of her wanted to shove him away and storm back inside, back to her cold bed and her nightmares of the impending apocalypse. The other half, however, wanted to lean into him and tell him she felt the same way. Buffy gulped, then steeled herself. She scooted closer to him and rested her head on his leather-clad shoulder. She felt his arm come up, go around her shoulders, draw her near. She took a deep breath and raised one hand, letting it come to rest on his chest, precisely where his heartbeat would be if he had one.
"Spike?" Buffy asked softly as his other arm came up to encircle her. She felt his long fingers begin to stroke her sleep-mussed hair, and she sank further into him, knowing what she had to say.
"I'm listening, pet." His voice was a comforting rumble in her ears, and she closed her eyes, and spoke.
"I love you."
He went very still. His fingers stopped mid-stroke; he would have stopped breathing if he drew breath in the first place. Fearfully she raised her head to look at his face -- had she misinterpreted everything?
Her fears were for naught. Spike blinked, and the spell she had unwittingly cast was broken. He looked down at her, his eyes kind. "Oh, luv," he breathed. "Oh, Buffy." A smile spread across her face. He leaned forward and kissed her, and she kissed him back, feeling only happiness.
The Turok-Han army was massing; potential Slayers were in lethal danger; apocalypse was imminent -- but all she could think about at that instant was Spike's cool mouth on hers, his familiar taste of copper and nicotine, his arms holding her close.
"Spike," she whispered, some time later.
"Buffy?" he panted.
She nodded to the sky, and Spike swore. The moon was sinking fast below the horizon, which was starting to blush with the new sun. "I think we'd better get inside." Spike nodded, untangling his arms from hers and getting stiffly to his feet. He held out a hand and she took it; he pulled her gracefully to her feet, and they slipped back into the house, their hands still clasped. Soon the girls would be rising to devour toast and eggs and cereal, ready to begin another day's work, ready to fight each other over whose turn it was to use the bathroom yet again -- but Buffy knew she had Spike by her side, and for the moment, that was enough.
~FIN